Whilst the wedding was taking place, the boys, on deck, attempted a game of Jackstraws, but in the midst of it, whilst Kit was excitedly declaring that “Artie’s hand shook the least bit in the world,” and Artie as warmly contending—
“It was only the tilting of the yacht,” a fresh breeze coolly settled the hot little dispute by whisking away the straws, and provoking a merry laugh.
The gay party was just in the midst of their luncheon when the tower of Rocky Point appeared, and very soon the Psyche lay beside the long wharf, the steersman its only occupant, whilst its chattering passengers were climbing in advance of their elders up the steep hill path, at the side of the hotel, in search of that greatest of diversions, the “Monkey’s Cage.” An excursion boat had just landed hundreds of pleasure-seekers, and they, too, with few exceptions, crowded about the huge wire house. Red-faced Germans with wives, children of all sizes and ages, and huge baskets of provisions, Irish military men, with shamrock on their caps, and sweetheart or wife on one arm, and the always present basket on the other, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Portuguese, all crowding around, chattering their various languages—made this inclosure a very Tower of Babel. It seemed queer enough that the objects of so much attention should seem so utterly unconscious of it all. There sat those little specimens of mock humanity, nibbling the nuts thrown at them, combing their short hair before their looking-glasses, or climbing up huge poles to tumble down again, making grimaces at the lookers on, or slyly jumping up to bite the tip of a fellow monkey’s tail, hanging invitingly from the perch above. Week after week, month after month, year after year, crowds gather about the monkey play-ground,—rich and poor, old and young, grave and gay. The middle-aged college professor, wending his way to the cool groves, where he may sit to read or think, fanned by soft sea breezes, and refreshed by odors of fresh foliage and sweet wild flowers,—halts here, and then goes smiling on his way to wonder “whether monkeys are not, perhaps, his cousins after all.”
Gay city damsels gather up their flounces, as they pass the dusty throng, but are seen to cast a stealthy look, exclaiming as they do so—
“What can people see so fascinating in monkeys!” and yet these same monkeys daily attract to their performances, crowds of spectators, and win shouts of applause on every side.
We have only two hours to stay at Rocky Point, so we take off our hats and wave our adieu to the chattering Jackos, and wend our way to peep in the cave so gloomy, and thence to the inclined railway for a ride in the little passenger car; now we stop for a moment to see the dancing Bear uncork and drink his bottle of soda water; thence a hurried look at the cage of birds, with their glorious plumage,—but we cannot stop, for the younger children are clamoring loudly for a “ride on the steam-horses,” so we hasten through the field to the inclosed yard, where a dozen pairs of ponies, large and small, stand ready harnessed for action. Hurrying through the little gate we lay down our pile of clean ten-cent pieces,—seize our riding-whips, mount the gay ponies, then a bell rings, the engine puffs, and away gallop the pairs of ponies with their shouting riders. Papa and his companions, sitting on a rustic bench near, find even the beautiful water-view has less attraction for them than the bright faces of the ten young riders, waving their whips, as they catch sight of the Papas and Mammas. Nan and Charlotte press close to the scene of action, resting their chins on the pickets which guard the enclosure, looking as if they, too, would fain be young again. Soon Papa gives the signal that it is nearly boat hour, and very reluctantly ponies and steam engine are left behind, and all wend their way to the great piazza to watch the steamboat’s approach, and as it comes puffing to the wharf, the young faces lengthen as they bid “good-by,” and utter hopes of another speedy meeting; then some climb down the little ladder to the yacht’s deck, and the rest of the party press with the multitude through the gate, and thence to the saloon of the Morning Star, on their return voyage to Providence.
It was a pretty well-fagged and drowsy party that tumbled into the old family carriage that waited on the dock, and tumbled out again as the horses stopped at the door of the Funny old house in Funny street, and soon after, too tired to enjoy the nursery tea, tumbled into their little beds to dream of bright green meadows, sandy parlors, clam-bakes, and chattering monkeys.